Modern Man

The wretched, cursed man,

bent and weeping,

Walking as if a monument

to sold out souls,

Turning, turning,

face side to side,

but no one sees him.

Still, he saunters,

freely meandering

through streets of

golden auras,

all the promises

well packaged lies.

Smelling flowers

as he travels,

for they told him

if he did so,

stopped,

and smelled them,

life would mean,

something,

anything at all.

Under the Shadow of a New Moon

They watch,

night vision,

and you can

feel them

see you.

Breath rises,

a fog to

peer through.

Still,

silence.

Touching

the darkness,

with outstretched

fingertips,

you make

your way.

Will the

noise,

of your

shaking

feet,

finally make

them

move?

Still,

silence.

You wait,

frozen,

within a

moat of the

vapor of

your own

breath.

The smallest

bits of

light,

relief against

the darkness.

When a flash

could be

a retina,

you wait,

still,

silence.

You wait.

 

The Anger of The Dead

Are they haunted by

our deaths?

As we stand,

side by side,

surely they feel

the pressure

of all our

ghostly bodies.

We manage,

with all our might

and force,

thousands pressed

together,

a dripping sound,

that echoes

as if in a hall

behind their heads.

One looks up and seems to

wonder,

then returns to

the attentions

of the others.

And we’re left

to drip,

slowly,

drop by drop

in silence.

 

Industrialism

How small I am,

as the great ships move,

hulking past,

their dulled metal would sound

like a scrape on stone,

if it spoke.

Huge shapes that erase the stars

from the sky,

eclipsed by the stench

of the death

that waits.

Why they eat worlds,

I do not know.

They cannot grow any larger,

yet,

They try.

These ships are not

even alive

anymore.

Nobody dares

to tell them.

These ships sail

upon the barren sands,

Still thinking they are

at sea.

And the echoes of the

songs of whales,

Still ring.

Softly.

They ring.